


Not Quite A Christmas Carol

by Donsular



Category: Mary Poppins (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, I finally fixed the typos, Madness, Moral Lessons, Parody, Spirits, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donsular/pseuds/Donsular
Summary: William Weatherall Wilkins has always hated Christmas. But after an insulting joke, he lashes out. But the spirits were watching, and now, he has to face the consequences of his actions in one very busy night. But the question is, will he ever change?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Not Quite A Christmas Carol

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this all at once I’m ready to scream. I hope you like my 11 hour rambling! Also, I studied this a few years ago, but my refresher of the plot came from watching the muppets version, so you’ll have to excuse any major inaccuracies. This is literally a parody of a parody. But my god was it fun to write. Anyway, I’m going to bed now, I hope there’s no editing mistakes. Enjoy!
> 
> Edit: So a month later and I was finally ready to come back to this behemoth and fix the errors that my tired mind made last time, so now it should actually be legible. :) Hopefully it’s a much more enjoyable read, now.

“Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Wilkins signed it. And Wilkins’ name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail... hang on.” The banker put the book down and let an accusatory gaze land on Miss Farthing.  
  
“So, they think I’m a misery, do they?!” Miss Farthing tried to keep eye contact with her former boss, but couldn’t help but cringe at his reaction. A few of the other bankers had gotten him an early Christmas present: they’d rewritten the entirety of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and changed the names of the characters to people in the bank who acted similarly. But it seemed like William Weatherall Wilkins did not appreciate being compared to Ebenezer Scrooge.  
  
“And who organised this?” He asked, his steely gaze burning a hole through her heart.  
  
“Well, there was a few people. Mr Richardson, Mrs Boyle, Mr Latterson, Mr Orville,” she counted on her fingers as she listed each name, watching Wilkins’ frown bend further and further each time, “and even your Uncle Dawes.”  
  
Wilkins didn’t seem too pleased by this. He had half a mind to go and have a good shout at each individual, but ever since that whole fiasco with the Bank’s shares and his demotion, he was no longer in a high enough position to be able to go shouting at the most important bankers in the damn place without consequence. With nobody else to take his anger out on, he would’ve liked to shout at his former secretary, but while he was still being quite snappish, he knew she would report that to Dawes and have him fired completely. He already had to beg and barter to keep a job in the bank, afterall, so he couldn’t afford to risk it.  
  
“Anyone else?” He growled.  
  
“Well, I believe Mr Banks had a few ideas, too. But I don’t think he got up to too much with the actual book.” That was good enough for him. Mr Banks had only recently become a full-time employee, so even with his own employment difficulties to worry about, he was still superior to him. He certainly couldn’t imagine Banks would go running to Dawes about this. Not when he’d insulted his superior. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t still harbouring some bitter feelings towards him.  
  
“Very well,” he said, “looks like I have to visit Mr Banks, then. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Farthing. You may be on your way, now.” His glare was certainly unwarranted, as Farthing had simply been asked by Dawes to deliver the book, and she had said as much. But the miserable banker couldn’t help but feel like she had a bigger part to play in this than she was letting on. He was going to have a hard time finding and rounding up all the copies of this.  
  
He waited until Farthing had left, and then counted to twenty, to be sure that she was far enough up the corridor that she wouldn’t see him leave, then, he was on his way. He wasn’t actually sure whether or not he’d even be there. Most people went home on Friday for the Christmas break, but if they were all coming in to get their copies of the book- of which he’d been told there was a hundred - then he might be able to catch him before he left.  
  
And catch him he did.  
  
As Wilkins stormed into Michael’s office, the young man had been quietly giggling away to himself as he read what was undoubtably the insulting novel. He attempted to scramble and shove the book away in his desk drawer before he could see, but his sudden arrival made it much too difficult.  
  
“Banks.”  
  
“Sir.”  
  
“I’ve heard you have something to do with this. Is that true?” He looked at him blankly, feigning innocence.  
  
“To do with what, sir?”  
  
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” he snapped, “you were involved in making that insulting parody and spreading it all over the bank.” Michael seemed to deflate in his place, looking sheepish as his eyes locked to a seemingly very interesting spot on the floor.  
  
“This is a professional environment. You’re making a mockery of the reputation of this very bank. People put their faith in us to handle their money responsibly, and they will soon leave us when there are silly stunts like this!”  
  
“Sir, with all due respect, I’d argue that deliberately destroying shares records would harm our reputation more than a simple joke that the public don’t even know about.” His grin was smug. Wilkins had half a mind to slap him, but he was already on thin ice. After that incident, it had taken an uncomfortably large portion of his savings to make that little problem go away. He couldn’t afford to risk losing even more from losing control and assaulting one of his bankers.  
  
“Watch your mouth, Banks, or else I’ll see to it that you’re thrown out of this very office before the new year.” The threat seemed to be enough to wipe that grin off his face, but he wasn’t quite done yet.  
  
“Be here tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp.” All the colour drained from his face in an instant. Yes, he’d definitely got him right where it hurt.  
  
“But sir, tomorrow’s Christmas. The bank isn’t even going to be open.”  
  
“But I’ll be here and so will you. There’s plenty that you can be doing even if we’re closed to the public. So you best be there or else you’re fired. Maybe then you’ll learn to respect your betters.”  
  
He didn’t stay long enough to watch his reaction. He left immediately and headed back to his own office. This certainly wasn’t the first time he’d ordered Michael to stay late or come in on weekends to make up for whatever thing he decided that day would justify his temper. But it was a first to do it on such an important day. Well, important to Michael, not him. He was planning on taking Christmas Day off, even though he was trying to work his way back up the career ladder, but if he was going to be working then, and he wasn’t required to stay now, then he was going to take an early leave. Taking his hat and coat from their place in his office, he headed right for the door and left, walking swiftly through the barren hallways. He couldn’t help but wonder what the other bankers might be doing with their free time, but as it most likely involved some form of Christmas celebration, he decided to stop those thoughts before they made him gag.  
  
He hated Christmas. All the singing, laughing, family visits (as you could probably guess, he wasn’t a particularly big fan of the small number of relatives he did have). He firmly believed that every idiot who went about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He didn’t care what people thought of that. They could keep those sorts of opinions to themselves. But he’d be damned if he let them publish such insults over trivial matters for all to read. No, he despised Christmas. He despised the whole month. But he considered it a necessary evil. Afterall, business was always better in January once the Christmas bills came in, and the people of London finally realised how foolish they’d all been to celebrate a pointless holiday. And in today’s economy, it would be better than ever. No, he didn’t need to be liked. He preferred to smart, and rich, even if it meant he was as solitary as an oyster.  
  
Upon stepping out into the snow, he was unbothered by the cold. He’d never found himself being greatly affected by heat or the cold. But he was affected by the silly cheer of the Christmas markets. The streets were filled to the brim with people spending money on cheap nick-nacks and ornaments. He despised such frivolities. And the passers-by knew. He’d become known as a Christmas misery around the city, which he was glad of, because it meant that most people just left him alone. He used to have to fight a constant urge to punch all the people trying sell him whatever cheap tat they happened to be conning people with that year. But these days, he was regarded with a sense of reverence sprouting out of fear. This time, the SPRUCE charity collectors weren’t even coming near. They’d been annoyingly persistent in the past, wanting his money to give to the unemployed. It was madness! If they were having such difficulty, then they were clearly a burden on society. Were there no prisons?! No workhouses?! He was fairly certain that there were still plenty of those. And if that wasn’t the case and the world had changed suddenly, overnight, then they should all just die and decrease the surplus population. Of course, the charity workers hadn’t been too pleased by this, but they weren’t quite brave enough to challenge him. He was well aware of his intimidating demeanour, which had become his default persona in recent months, and took full advantage of such a presence. Maybe his Uncle thought he was too uptight, but he was always much more efficient in his business than he could ever be. Cheer didn’t help him succeed so why waste time on it?  
  
At precisely seventeen seconds past two twenty-three, Wilkins arrived back at his dimly lit house. As he took out his key and moved to unlock the door, it is important to note that his mind was blank, with no thoughts at all distracting him from the rather simple task at hand, that was also more difficult at this time of night, in this level of light. And while his mind certainly hadn’t been blank earlier that day, he never once thought of anyone other than himself and his own fellow employees. So, it came as a total shock when his large door knocker held the image- without undergoing any intermediate process of change- not of a door knocker, but of his Great Uncle’s Father, Dawes Sr.  
  
It was so bizarre, for Dawes’ face was not affected by the impenetrable shadow laying across the rest of the street. In fact, he seemed to glow with a dismal blue light. And his features were neither angry nor ferocious, dejected nor regretful, jovial nor content. No, he simply stared at Wilkins with the same blank expression that he’d grown accustomed to seeing in life. He hadn’t thought much on the man, as he died when he was still young, but he recognised his usual spectacles and their air of displeasure that he carried at seemingly all hours. His eyes remained open and motionless, as the whisks of hair that he still had left seemed to be blown gently by the evening breeze. So, while no horror came from his features, it’s mere existence, which should’ve been the furthest thing from possible, was enough to send a strange sensation down his spine, which left him reeling. And as Wilkins’ gaze remained fixed on this phenomenon, it was a door knocker again.  
  
He did pause briefly, but he’d be lying if he said the experience hadn’t unsettled him, so he quickly set about unlocking the door, pushing his way inside and slamming the heavy black mahogany door behind him. The sound resonated through the house like thunder, and for the briefest moment, he considered that such behaviour might further provoke the spirit. But even as he waited for the worst to happen, nothing came, and Wilkins was left in the entryway with his hand that was definitely not shaking, thank you very much.  
  
Running a calming hand through his hair, he took a moment to compose himself, deciding that such a hallucination could have simply been due to stress or even a bit of food poisoning. He’d be fine. There was absolutely nothing to fear. So, he continued with his business, setting his hat and coat on their respective hangers before he rummaged through his pockets for his lighter and lit a candle to take upstairs with him. There wasn’t much point in blinding himself with his too bright lights when he had some afternoon sunlight still peering through his windows before the sun set completely. The winter months meant darkness fell by four o’clock, so he still had an hour before he needed anymore light. He may have been rich, but he still had a mind set on saving money wherever he could. Darkness was cheap, so of course he liked it.  
  
The late afternoon held nothing in its plan for Wilkins, and he had no plans for it. So, upon reaching his rather lush bedroom, he decided on changing into his pyjamas and slipping on his striped, red dressing down. Once his slippers were on, he retreated to the kitchen to cook a quick evening meal for himself from the ingredients left over from the previous night and settled in an armchair in his lounge to enjoy the meal.  
  
The fire was, indeed, quite low. After working out the cost of all the firewood, he had been appalled by how much he had wasted, and for the last month, was doing all in his power to use less wood. The result saved money, but meant that on nights like this, he had to brood particularly close to the flames to appreciate their warmth. To a man like Wilkins, the cost of the firewood hadn’t actually been anywhere close to breaking the bank, but him being such a stringent and tight-fisted man, he found more value in money than most people did. For after his many years of life, money was really all he had to show for it.  
  
“Finally,” he muttered to himself, “some peace and quiet.”  
  
Had Wilkins known what else he would face that evening; he’d have probably stayed silent.  
  
It started as simply his own paranoia. Wilkins was a very logical man who always needed to know the answer to every marvel he came across. So, after seeing the face of a man that was almost 25 years dead on his door knocker, he couldn’t help but wonder what on earth could have caused such a vision. He hadn’t felt particularly stressed at work, afterall, business usually wound down at this time of year. People would be fools to try buying or selling property at such a time of year. And while he was still rather bemused by his demotion several months ago, he had rather comfortably settled into his new role. His finances hadn’t taken too hard a hit, as he was only earning slightly less than before, and for a man that liked to live cheaply, it made little difference. He actually found he quite liked the challenge that the demotion brought. At the top of the ladder, he had nowhere else to go, but now that he had to climb again, he had something to work towards. And he already had a taste of it to spur him on. Yes, even despite the investigation he faced, Wilkins wasn’t stressed. And as he ran through a mental list of everything he’d eaten in the last few days, he decided he couldn’t be poisoned either. He was in perfectly fine health.  
  
So why did he see Dawes?  
  
It never once crossed his mind that he could’ve been a witness to the supernatural. Because in his mind, no such thing existed, and he’d believe that till the day he died. But with no explanation for his vision, Wilkins was left dazed and confused.  
  
Several more minutes would pass before anything else of significance would occur. It was after a bout of pacing, deep in thought, when Wilkins slumped back in his old chair, his head resting back against the plush fabric, that he heard the ringing of a distant bell. While it certainly wasn’t in the room, it appeared to come from somewhere in the house, which Wilkins noted was rather odd, as he didn’t have anyone else living with him. No wife, children, friends, family or even staff- he fired them all years ago when they tried to demand a higher wage. But a bell rings from anything touching it, and after having been plagued with a family of rats the year before, he was only mildly irritated by the occurrence, even despite what he saw only an hour prior.  
  
Whoever was responsible clearly wasn’t too pleased with being ignored in such a way, and after several attempts to ring the bell louder and faster, they turned to another method. It only took a second to locate every other bell in the house, and in a sudden thunderous chorus, they all began to ring. And this succeeded in causing a stir, as Wilkins, believing there was an intruder in the house, armed himself with a fire poker and stood ready at his door.  
  
“Who goes there?” He pretended his voice wasn’t shaking, and called upon all his courage. He fought in the Great War for goodness sake! Some vile hooligans were nothing. Even if he couldn’t hear any other form of life.  
  
Well, that is, until he could.  
  
After about half a minute, the ringing stopped and was succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine merchant’s cellar. The cellar door flew open with a booming sound, and he heard the noise much louder on the floors below. Then coming up the stairs. Then coming straight towards his door.  
  
“I’ll won’t ask again. Who goes there?”  
  
But his colour changed, when, without hesitation, the figure pressed through the door. Through? No. Such things weren’t possible. He wouldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t!  
  
It was the same face. The exact same face as that which became his door knocker. Dawes.  
  
He looked exactly the same as he had in life. He walked with the same hunch, the same cane, and the same shaking. His round spectacles sat so dangerously close to the edge of his nose, that it made Wilkins wonder how on Earth they managed to stay on his face. A neatly trimmed white beard shielded his face from any cold breeze that may have disturbed his much whisper hair atop his own head. However, there was a worrying difference, as his usually neatly pressed suit was torn and sundered, while his red scarf and been replaced entirely by chains that were clamped to several cash boxes that he dragged behind him. The extra weight severely hindered him, yet despite his clear struggles, he moved at the same speed. It was as if each tiny step he took, that should have only allowed him to travel inches, at best, took him several metres at a time, until he was standing before Wilkins in all his glowing ghoulish glory.  
  
Wilkins had heard stories of ghosts. The spirits of discontented men and women who roam the city streets haunting and tormenting those still blessed with life. But he had never considered them to be real, or to look like this. The chilling influence of his cold dead eyes led him to lower his weapon in the presence of his relative. Speaking to such a creature seemed like inanity, but when Dawes remained silent, and no further hauntings befell his home, Wilkins felt inclined to know what was going on.  
  
“What do you want with me?”  
  
“Much!” It was Dawes voice. It had to be. The slow rasp that sounded like he was wheezing each word out from crushed lungs. But he was dead! How was this even possible?!  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
“Ask me who I was.” Wilkins hesitated but complied, regardless.  
  
“Who were you, then?”  
  
“In life, I was the owner of your bank. Well, the bank you used to own.” His judgemental laugh cut deeper than it probably should have when dealing with a spirit he was sure could not be real, but alas, Wilkins found himself grumbling quietly to himself and turning away to hide the growing frown from the ghost.  
  
“I am Thomas Dawes Sr.” There was a moment of silence between them before he continued, “You don’t believe me,” he observed.  
  
“I don’t” came Wilkins snappish response.  
  
“What evidence do you have of my reality, beyond your senses?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Precisely. Then why doubt your senses?” He was right, but Wilkins was always a stubborn man and a believer in science over the paranormal.  
  
“Because” he started, “a little thing can affect the brain. A slight disorder of the stomach is enough to see things that aren’t true. You could be a bit of undigested beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There’s more gravy than of grave about you whatever you are!”  
  
Wilkins wasn’t normally one for cracking jokes, especially not in such situations, but it made his point, even if he did feel like a fool. Dawes, as usual, didn’t understand the joke at first, muttering it out loud to himself until the penny finally dropped and he started laughing. At least, he thought it was laughter. Dawes sounded like he was struggling to breath from the way he wheezed, but he was soon enough able to see the toothless grin spread across his face as he started to float in the air. His laughter grew louder and louder, his body beginning to glow an even brighter white through his pleasure, his heaving chuckles rattling the chains in a deafening, clanking orchestra that left Wilkins’ ears ringing. It was enough for the fire to slowly dwindle till only the faintest glow was emitted by its embers. And before he could do any more serious damage, he drifted back to the floor and regained his composure once more.  
  
“Goodness. I haven’t heard a good one like that in a long time. It doesn’t quite beat ‘a wooden leg named Smith’, but it was pretty darn close.” He beamed, wagging a bony finger in approval. However, Dawes’ merriment was rather starting to grate on Wilkins, and he soon found himself fighting an urge not to threaten the spirit into leaving him.  
  
“Spirit, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but unless you have anything that’s actually worth saying, then I’d appreciate it if you could just sod off!” Dawes had to supress a wide-eyed laugh at that, which only enraged Wilkins further, but he quickly wiped the expression from his face as the cash boxes began tugging on the chains around him, urging him to hurry up, catching Wilkins’ eye and forcing him to ask,  
  
“What are those, anyway?”  
  
“I forged these chains in life, through my actions. I was never a kind man in my younger days. But as I got older, I revaluated what I was putting into the world and made a change for the better. Now, these chains are no longer mine.”  
  
“Well, then whose are they?” He asked, fearing he already knew the answer.  
  
“They’re yours.” Wilkins’ eyes widened. It couldn’t be possible. He wasn’t really that bad, was he? Yes, he’d made his mistakes- every man had their fair share- but it was hardly enough to be shackled for all eternity, surely? But when he flippantly remarked that he didn’t believe the spirit, Dawes continued as if he’d never spoken.  
  
“That is why I’m here. I was about your age when I decided to right the wrongs of my life. So, it’s not too late for you. You don’t have to suffer the same fate as all the other miscreants of this world.”  
  
“I won’t. I know I’m not bad enough to warrant eternal damnation. So, it hardly matters. There’s nothing that needs changing, now if you can please leave me, I would greatly appreciate it.” He was rather more snappish than was necessary, but by this time, Wilkins was getting tired of this peculiar evening and was ready to go to bed and wish this nightmare away.  
  
“I thought you might say that,” Dawes continued, “which is why I’ve already enlisted some help from a few friends of mine. I’ll be damned if I let my twice great nephew be taken by greed.” Wilkins rolled his eyes. “Tonight, you’ll be haunted by three spirits.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Expect the first, when the bell chimes one.”  
  
“Well, can’t I just meet them all at once and get it over with?”  
  
“When the bell chimes one.” Dawes merely pointed out the window, to where Big Ben could be seen in the distance. And had Wilkins not been too shocked by his uncle’s words, he may have turned to look himself, and seen the many other phantoms wandering the city, spreading their own desperate messages to their families following the wrong path. But, alas, Wilkins was much too preoccupied in the way the spirit standing in front of him seemed to suddenly begin to fade, jangling his chains as he did so, their sound fading along with him. And in just a few moments, Wilkins was left standing alone in his room, as if nothing had ever happened.  
  
“One o’clock? Well, if it must be so late, the spirits can wake me themselves!” And with that declaration, he stormed off to bed.  
  
Wilkins would not sleep well that night. His dreams were plagued with terrible visions of what he assumed to be his awaiting fate in whatever afterlife was coming. But when he did finally wake with a start, he was quite quick in assuring himself that it was merely paranoia from what he’d seen of his uncle- not seen, hallucinated. He would have to see about making sure his pantry was free of any contaminated or old food that he may have accidently eaten. And he would have done that right away, however, it was only then that he finally realised that it was still dark. The sun was nowhere near rising and, upon checking out the window, the lamps were still lit.  
  
A strange cold had fallen upon the house while he slept, and Wilkins, who as I have already said, was never too badly affected by such temperatures, still found himself shivering enough to warrant lighting the fire in his bedroom. The flames did wonders to fight off the chill, and it also provided enough light for the banker to see the clock on his wall without having to switch on the main lights.  
  
One o’clock. Well, actually it was about a minute till one. But that made no difference to the fact that he had woken up so strangely early. Maybe the spirits had heard him, and woken him up per his request. No, that would be silly. That would imply that he would actually be haunted, and the very idea was simply absurd.  
  
But then the clock chimed one.  
  
His small wall mounted clock cared not for the occasion, but both Big Ben and his own rather grand standing clock downstairs chimed in unison to mark the hour. And as Dawes’ words rattled around in his head- though he would definitely deny it later- he found himself holding his breath and bracing for someone- or something- to appear.  
  
But nothing came.  
  
Wilkins waited several seconds after the bells fell silent and still nothing came.  
  
“For goodness sake! You’d think if they were so keen to haunt me, they’d be bloody here on time!”  
  
“Excuse me, I am always here on time. If you could simply look past the end of your nose, you might have seen me.” Wilkins spun around to see a woman- who he could have sworn wasn’t there a second ago- standing in the doorway to his bedroom.  
  
“And I’ll have you know that I don’t ‘haunt’ people,” she said, as if she was offended by the very word, “I come to provide my services whenever they’re required. And haunting is certainly no such service.”  
  
“Well, you did a bloody good job at scaring me.”  
  
“First of all: language. Second of all: there are many things that are scary, but they don’t haunt people. Unless you’ve been haunted by forgetting to turn the oven off.” Wilkins paused to take in the strange spirit standing before him, in total shock, he hadn’t even noticed that his mouth had fallen open until she made a comment,  
  
“Now, now, Wilkins. We are not a codfish.” She was such an unusual lady, with a face he could’ve sworn he’d seen before. She wore a red coat with a matching pencil skirt that flared out slightly at the end, contrasting with a blue hat and shoes. Her hair lay in the tidiest updo he’d ever seen on a lady and he couldn’t help but be drawn to her steely blue eyes. But he found he was more bothered that he was certain he knew her face. But where from?  
  
“Are you the spirit sent by my uncle?”  
  
“Yes, I am.” She said, looking around the room as she decided what she thought of the décor. Though she continued on with her conversation with no sign at all of distraction.  
  
“My name is Mary Poppins, and I’m going to show you your Christmas past.” Wilkins groaned at the thought alone. Michael’s scheme had really been spot-on, hadn’t it? However, his lack of enthusiasm didn’t seem to make Ms Poppins too happy.  
  
“For goodness sake, Wilkins, you’re not a flour bag. Stand up straight.” Once he did as he was told, Mary briefly looked him over, and once she was satisfied that he was suitably presented- somehow finding no fault in the fact that his was still in his pyjamas- she reached out to him.  
  
“Good, now, take my hand.” Wilkins was certainly unsure at first, but did as he was told, finding himself rather intimidated by the spirit. He’d never come across someone more daunting than himself, especially not a woman. But that though was quickly out of his head as she opened the window and held her parrot-handled umbrella aloft.  
  
“We’re not going out there, are we?” He gulped, “You might be alright, but I’m still mortal. I’ll fall!”  
  
“No, you won’t, not unless you let go. Now, come along then. Spit spot, and off we go.” With that, she opened up her umbrella, and like a sail catching the wind, the two were pulled out the window by an inescapable force, and thrust into the night air, where, once he had the courage to open his eyes, they had reached high enough into the sky that Wilkins could make acquaintances with the stars.  
  
Below him, thousands of specs of light lined the streets as homes and lamps sparkled through the night’s veil. The streets were empty but no less incredible from such a hight. And he found himself rather grateful of the late hour, as he didn’t like the idea of having to explain what he was experiencing to anyone else that may have seen. He simply enjoyed the view, and allowed his eyes to close for a moment, to better feel the sense of weightlessness that he’d never felt before. And when he finally opened his eyes again, upon wishing to see the city once more, he found it was gone. Replaced by the rolling hills and winding rivers of the English countryside. And as they landed, he released exactly where they were.  
  
“Good heavens! This is my old school. I was a boy here!” Mary smiled fondly as Wilkins spotted a group of boys running by, she seemed to very much enjoy being in the company of children. Anyone would think she was a nanny, and he certainly didn’t envy the poor children being chaperoned by a spirit. But he quickly forgot about that as his old school friends approached, “Peter! Hello! Hello David, and Thomas, and Nicholas! Hello boys!” However, his joy was short lived, as the boys ignored him, and when they approached, passed through his body like he wasn’t even there. Stammering in shock, he looked to Mary for an explanation.  
  
“They cannot see us. We’re merely here to watch and observe the past. It can’t be altered now.” Wilkins settled at that. Her explanation made perfect sense to him, though he still couldn’t understand why they’d come here of all places.  
  
“Forgive me, but why are you showing me this? I have only fond memories of this place.”  
  
“Only fond?” She quirked a brow at him, “I imagine the lonely boy inside might think differently.” Once again, they were transported, this time, to one of the classrooms in the school. It was lined with countless shelves of books; the chalkboard had been freshly cleaned and every chair was neatly tucked under their respective desk. The perfect environment for a young boy to learn the ways of the world. Except, it was empty. Well, not quite.  
  
Just as Mary had said, a boy sat alone at his desk. And of course, he knew who it was. It would be rather strange if he couldn’t recognise his own face.  
  
“The boys are all going home to spend Christmas with their families, and yet here you are. As always.” He tried to brush off the comment as casually as possible.  
  
“Well, as you’ve probably guessed, I never much cared for Christmas. My studies were always my top priority. Going home would always mean a lot of commotion, and a lot of distractions. So why not take advantage of an empty school to get ahead?” His response was well rehearsed, afterall, he’d said it enough times throughout his youth. Nevermind the fact that going home at Christmas meant listening to his family’s arguments and spats over the bank, or how things used to be different before this or that. He’d much rather spend his time studying so one day, he could finally get away from all that rubbish for good.  
  
Mary quietly observed his expressions. As if she could tell exactly what he was thinking. But upon no further words being exchanged, she clicked the pointed end of her umbrella against the floor like a cane, and with that, announced,  
  
“Let’s see something a bit happier, shall we?” Wilkins was given no time to answer, before she whisked them away, this time, to several years ahead when he couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. And of course, as soon as Wilkins assessed his new surroundings, he was overcome with a found nostalgia, and a smile, once again, graced his features as he admired the building before him. They stood in north London on Penton Street; a rather quiet place if you disregarded the commotion coming from inside.  
  
“Do you know where we are now?”  
  
“Of course, I know! How could I forget? Mr Fitz’s Christmas parties were legendary. And I should know, I was in charge of the finances.” He chuckled, cringing slightly as he remembered his old boss’ ‘generous’ spending habits during the holidays.  
  
The two stepped inside and were immediately enveloped in the warm cheer of the party. Glasses clinked, people laughed, and at the back of the room, a band played music for the joyful guests, oblivious to the cold harsh snowstorm raging outside. And who cared? It was the Fitz Christmas party!  
  
Wilkins’ eyes darted around the room in the hopes of maybe catching a glimpse of the man himself. It was only when he heard his own voice that he was able to find him, his younger self on his coattails.  
  
“Sir, I’ve been checking the finances. Do you have any idea how much you’ve spent on this party? The band must have tricked you; I can’t imagine any other reason as to why you’d pay so much for some music when a gramophone would suffice.” Mr Fitz, a rather portly and jovial man, simply waved a dismissive hand at his fretting, before plucking the bills he clutched so frightfully, and tucked them away in his own pocket.  
  
“Because you can’t beat live music! And quality is important when spending time with friends. Do it properly or not at all, that’s what I say!” He quickly slung an arm around Wilkins shoulder, turning on his heel to redirect the pair to a table where he collected the younger man a glass of champagne in an attempt to silence his worries. For one night, just one night, he could afford to relax.  
  
“Come on now Will, it’s Christmas! Why are you stressing so much? Relax. We can worry about the bills in the new year. You’re the hardest working employee I’ve got, you’re allowed to have some time aside for fun.” Wilkins cringed slightly at that.  
  
“Sir, you know I can’t do this. We both know what you’re like with money, and it’s my job to make sure you don’t go bankrupt. You keep me very busy with all that.” Fitz looked thoughtful for a moment.  
  
“I keep forgetting you like to follow instructions.” But a smile quickly returned. “No matter! Will, my boy, if you’re so intent on following orders, then I order you to stop working and enjoy the party.”  
  
“But sir-!” He stuttered incredulously.  
  
“No buts! Otherwise, you’re fired.” And with that, Mr Fitz quickly diverted them to a group of friends so he could derail any anxieties from Wilkins before they even had a chance to tumble past his lips.  
  
“You always were a worrier.” Mary commented. “And I suppose you still are.”  
  
“Not a worrier.” Came his response, “Responsible.” Mary smiled, stifling a small chuckle.  
  
“Very well then. A responsibility-masked worrier.” Wilkins may very well have made a comment at this, but Fitz had already started up a new conversation for his past self, and Wilkins was rather inclined to pay attention.  
  
“William, I want you to meet Miss Anne Havisham. Miss Havisham, this is William Weatherall Wilkins.”  
  
“How do you do?” Anne was a beautiful woman, there was no doubt about that. Blonde locks curled in their magnificent updo beneath her stylish hat. A white and peach dress clung to her perfectly curved frame, complimenting her alluring green eyes brilliantly. Her perfect posture made her look a foot taller, with even more height coming from her heals. And when he reached out to kiss a dainty gloved hand, she smiled so sweetly that even angels could not compare. He was enchanted by her then, and he was enchanted by her now.  
  
“Would you care to tell me who this is?” Mary asked.  
  
“Anne Havisham. She was the only woman I’ve ever had eyes for. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the patience for me.”  
  
“Well then, lets see how that ended.” Wilkins’ eyes shot up to her, wanting nothing more than to go home at this point. He definitely couldn’t bear to see that. But Mary Poppins didn’t care much for that.  
  
They were standing in Hyde Park before he had the sense to protest, and by this point, there was no use in trying to run, for Anne stood with his younger self only several paces from where Wilkins and Mary stood.  
  
“Spirit, please, I don’t want to see this. We both already know how this ends. Why do you want to torment me with difficult memories?”  
  
“Because they _are_ so difficult. You haven’t thought about this in a long time. And its about time you did.”  
  
Wilkins looked back to the troubled couple, perched on a bench. Anne was forcing a smile, but he remembered the pain behind the look very well. He didn’t want to see this.  
  
“Anne, is this not everything you have hoped for?” He beamed, “Business is finally on the rise, and if I can keep this up for a bit longer, I’ll be able to give you exactly the kind of life you deserve.” Yet Anne did not smile. She simply looked down to where her hands sat in her lap, spinning the wedding ring that was clasped around her finger. This was not the life she had hoped for. Not at all.  
  
“Will, we don’t need money to be happy. I didn’t marry you for that. I married you for you. But I feel like I hardly get to see you anymore. Do you really love your business more than me?”  
  
“Darling, of course not. I know I’ve been distant, but I think by the end of the year, things will be going well enough that I can step away from work and spend more time with you.” She forced a short, harsh laugh in place of letting the tears roll.  
  
“You said that last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. And funnily enough, before that, when we weren’t married, I was happier than I am now. I actually felt like you loved me. But clearly there’s only space in your heart for money.” She stood and smoothed her dress, a steely gaze boring holes through his soul.  
  
“Anne, please, we’ve almost got the life I imagined. We just need to stick at this for a bit longer. Have you no faith in me?” He reached out to take her hand to stop her from leaving, but as soon as he did, she snatched her hand away as if she’d been burnt.  
  
“I had faith when this began: four years ago. But I can’t keep waiting for you, Will. Because it will never be enough for you. They’ll never be enough for the life you want, and you’ll happily leave me waiting until you retire. Well, that is if your withering body is enough to stop you from scrabbling for more. I’m tired of this, Will. I need a change.” With that, she left the park, not once turning back.  
  
“She went to stay with her parents. I tried to convince her that I was willing to change, but I thought I could continue as I was without her knowledge. But she found out. We divorced the next month.” He stood for a moment longer, staring at his younger self, feeling the long-buried emotions beginning to flare up within him.  
  
“Spirit, why are you tormenting me like this? Why do I need to see all this?” He asked, gesturing to the scene before him. “I’ve had enough. I don’t want to see anymore. Please, Spirit, take me home.” Mary gave him a look, like she was judging whether or not he deserved to. And after everything he’d been shown, he wasn’t sure if he really did. But in the end, it seemed like his pitiful begging did the trick, for, before he knew what was even happening, he was brought back home to bed like he’d never even left.  
  
He shot up from his place amongst the soft pillows and duvet, to find that it was still just as dark as when he left. For it was still the same night. Climbing out of bed, he shuffled closer to the fire, which was still lit and flickering away like everything was just fine. He found himself in desperate need of its warmth, and huddled in close. This was hardly the way he was expecting to spend his night. He just hoped that if these ghosts were so magical, then they wouldn’t leave him feeling exhausted in the morning. Afterall, he had to go to in to work. His lesson to Banks about reputation would be pointless if he was falling asleep at his own desk.  
  
Once his nerves had been suitably settled by the comforting warmth, Wilkins allowed himself to wander over to the clock and wonder when the next spirit would arrive, and soon found himself quietly grumbling to himself about that very question.  
  
“I do hope this isn’t going to be a one-a-day sort of thing. I don’t have the patience for that. Can’t they just hurry up?”  
  
Suddenly, the bells of London’s timekeepers rang out for two o’clock. The time of his awakening was too convenient to have woken for no reason. Surely the second spirit was coming, now. This time, he kept a more vigilant eye out for the visitor. Mary Poppins had appeared very suddenly just behind him, so he would have to pay attention for the arrival of the second. However, again, he heard nothing.  
  
He heard so much nothing, infact, that he left his room and looked down the stairs to the floor below, in case they were walking through his home like Dawes had. Though it was rather hard to see in the dark, so he lit the old oil lamp that lit his hallway. He really did need to see about updating the place to run solely on electrical lights.  
  
It was during this time, standing out on the landing, that the fireplace in his room flared up with an unusually energetic form of life, followed by the thud of something falling from the chimney. Wilkins was paralysed in fear. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to rob him, and they had used the same point of entry that time, aswell. He’d never admit that he was so scared, but if you _were_ to ask, Wilkins would be unable to provide any other explanation as to why he stayed in the hallway, huddled by the light of the lamp.  
  
He was so enraptured by what he couldn’t yet see in his bedroom, that he didn’t notice how the flame in the lamp behind him flared similarly to the fireplace, as something else climbed out. He might have turned around had he not heard the voice coming from his own room.  
  
“Come in, and know me better, man!” The jovial voice carried through the house in a large and dramatic manner. His whole bedroom seemed to have lit up in a warm light, but Wilkins found himself cursing the heavy curtains surrounding his bed, as, at the angle he was standing at, they made it completely impossible to see who was standing in his bedroom. And while he was certainly feeling a little apprehensive to approach, he soon found himself being pushed from behind by someone else.  
  
“Well go on then, you heard him!” The cheerful voice startled him, and soon enough, Wilkins found himself standing in his bedroom with two ghosts.  
  
“So, I assume you two are the final ghosts sent to haunt me?” The pair looked between each other, confused.  
  
“Final?” The first asked.  
  
“Nonononono. We’re both the second ghost. The ghost of Christmas present! He’s the here and I’m the now.” They said pointing between themselves and the other.  
  
“Hello!”  
  
Wilkins looked between the two in total confusion. Dawes said there’d only be three. He didn’t say that a pair counted as one. What, was he going to get a quartet of people to torment him, next? And they were certainly an odd pair. While he guessed the first spirit to have been a nanny, these two appeared to be a chimney sweep and a lamplighter, considering how they held a brush and a lighting pole, respectively. The leerie was a young man, who had to be in his mid-thirties at most. His dark eyes sparkled brightly in the firelight glow, and a giddy grin painted his features into one of pure excitement. The chimney sweep was an older man, but still held the same youthful spirit in those dire-wolf blue eyes. He was a lankier man, whose features seemed slightly more exaggerated and almost comical, when compared to his partner. His clothes had also dulled with soot and age, leaving what should have been matching red waistcoats the furthest thing from matching. The only things they wore that looked at all the same, was their flat caps, which seemed to be identical to one another. Yes, they were certainly an odd pair, but the two seemed to hold a close bond, which was plain for all to see if one just looked them in the eyes. Perhaps a father-son duo, he suspected. Perhaps.  
  
“So, what do you wish to show me?”  
  
“Have a guess.” The leerie goaded, a childish toothy grin plastered to his face.  
  
“We’re the ghost of the present, so…”  
  
“You wish to show something occurring right now?” He thought that didn’t make much sense, though. With it being two o’clock in the morning, he couldn’t really imagine there being much at all to see. But the ghosts seemed triumphant, regardless.  
  
“YEAH!” The leerie cheered, “Well, actually, not quite. We’re going to show what’s going to happen in the morning. But it’s that sort of time period. Technically we’re the ghosts of Christmas slightly-into-the-future, but that’s not as catchy. So we say it’s the present.”  
  
“And that’s good enough for us!” The sweep added, “So come on!” With that, the two took his hands and raced out of the bedroom, the leerie leading the way, followed by Wilkins and then the sweep holding his other hand. And he had to admit, at such a late hour, he was already growing tired of their incessant energy, and irritated by the fact that he could’ve sworn he knew their faces. He’d definitely seen the leerie’s face somewhere before, and the sweep looked just like his uncles. And he just couldn’t understand how they were so darn cheerful.  
  
Eventually, they made it outside into the snow, where Wilkens stood shivering, suddenly finding himself _very_ bothered by the temperature drop that he had hardly noticed earlier that day. So, he was particularly interested in moving along with things before he froze to death. Which meant it was pretty safe to say, that he wasn’t particularly impressed when the leerie brought out a bicycle from its place hiding behind his garden hedge.  
  
“TADAA!”  
  
“Really?” He started, “What, are we going to pretend to be Father Christmas, now, and deliver presents and bikes to the children of the world?” he asked, sarcastically. The smile was wiped from the leerie’s face, as he chewed the inside of his cheek awkwardly.  
  
“No, I just thought you might be excited by how we were going to take you into the future.” His hands crept into his pockets as he scuffed his shoe over the pavement lightly, his eyes darting between Wilkins and the floor in disappointment.  
  
“With all due respect, spirit, there is no way I’m going to cram myself onto a bicycle with two other men and peddle off into the night. Surprisingly enough, I’d like to keep my dignity intact.” The sweep, who’d been standing a little off to the side until now, practically dived on Wilkins, leaning on his shoulder, and talking right into his ear.  
  
“Ah, come on. Lighten up! You’re so uptight. And you can call us by our names you know, you don’t have to keep calling us spirits.”  
  
“Then what do I call you?”  
  
“Jack and Bert.” He pointed between his partner and himself to indicate that Jack was the leerie, and he was Bert, “See? Short, sweet, and simple.”  
  
“Well, that’s all fine but I’m not getting on that bike with both of you. The weight on those wheels alone will make it impossible to move.”  
  
“Nonsense!” came the response, as Bert grabbed Wilkins by the jaw, turning his head to Jack, “And are you sure you can say no to that face, hm?” Jack was giving him his best pitiful puppy dog eyes, and while the expression itself did little to move him, it made Wilkins realise that he didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter, and so he reluctantly agreed, being met with a chorus of cheers.  
  
“Come on then!” Jack laughed, “Let’s go!” With that, Jack got on the bike, slotting his lighting pole in its holster, and moving back on the seat to allow Wilkins to sit, as he would presumably stand on the pedals as they went. He did as he was told, and was surprised to see Bert get on aswell, standing on a set of pegs emerging from each side of the back wheel, while holding onto the leerie’s shoulders and his sweep’s brush. And most amazingly of all, when Jack kicked off, they actually moved.  
  
The trio set off through the city streets, and although he would deny it later, Wilkins found he didn’t feel particularly safe holding onto the handlebars, and quickly grabbed onto Jack’s arm, clinging on for dear life.  
  
“Aww, look,” the leerie cooed, “He’s scared.” Bert looked over his shoulder, equally fond of the banker, and reached down to ruffle his hair.  
  
“Aww, bless. Don’t worry Willy, won’t be long now!”  
  
“Don’t call me that.” The pair ignored him as they came to the top of a hill, giddily laughing the whole time, and as they started to count down, he realised that this was the most appropriate time to feel absolutely terrified.  
  
“THREE! TWO! ONE!”“GO!” Suddenly, Jack pushed off, sending them hurtling down the hill at an incomprehensible speed, that had all three of them screaming in delight or terror, depending on who you asked. And Wilkins had never wanted to go back home more than he did in that moment. Honestly, the two were insane. Absolutely. Agents of chaos. And yet, somehow, he got the feeling that while he was with them, they’d keep him safe. Certainly an odd feeling to have when they were hurtling down a hill at some god-awful speed.  
  
“EIGHTY-EIGHT MILES PER HOUR!”  
  
“That doesn’t exist yet, Bert!” He dreaded to think what futuristic reference the spirit made, but Wilkins didn’t have time to think about it, as flames erupted from the back of the bike, and the whole world seemed to change. The sun rose, the streets filled, and as they reached the bottom of the hill, Wilkins realised they were running through a crowd of people. And he really meant ‘through’. Just like he experienced back with Mary, they were merely there to observe, and they passed through the people like Wilkins himself was a ghost, completely unheard, despite all their screaming. And when they finally came to a stop in the middle of the street, Wilkins still held on for a little longer as he tried to regain control of his racing heart.  
  
Bert was the first to hop off the bike, proudly announcing,  
  
“Here we are! Christmas Day! And the best day of the year, if you ask me.” Upon hearing this, Wilkins was snapped out of his daze and also removed himself from Jack’s arm and the bike, joining Bert at his side.  
  
“Well, nobody asked you.”  
  
“You know, I would have thought a man would be more polite to his time travelling ghosts.”  
  
“I am polite if I am treated with respect. And that bike ride was the furthest thing from dignified.”  
  
“Lighten up!” Jack laughed, snapping his fingers, making the bike disappear, “its not like anybody saw.”  
  
“Alright, alright.” He relented, “So what now?”  
  
“This way!” Bert beamed, grabbing the other two and pulling them along until they were dashing and weaving through the streets of London, through the joy and cheer, the laughter and singing, the charity and jokes. Wilkins didn’t usually see much of that at Christmas, choosing to hide away in his own home or at the bank most years. So, the whole experience seemed rather foreign to him, at least on such a large scale. He could never quite escape the holiday cheer that the bankers would bring with them to work.  
  
Eventually, they arrived at a house he knew, though hadn’t visited since its owner bought the place and enrolled him in helping him move in. His great uncle Dawes’ home. He was dragged inside to see a party in full swing, and even though it had been a while since he’d seen them all, Wilkins was still able to point out each and every one of his relatives.  
  
“My goodness, I didn’t know they were getting along, now.” Wilkins stared in shock as two of his cousins laughed a chittered away to each other like they were the best of friends. “Last time I saw them, they were at each other’s throats.”  
  
“And when did you last see them?” Wilkins cringed,  
  
“Fifteen years ago.” Jack and Bert exchanged a look, chuckling slightly to themselves.  
  
“And you’re surprised that they’ve not moved on after fifteen years?”  
  
“Well- I suppose…”  
  
“Truth be told,” Bert added, “your family hasn’t had any rows in years. They’re actually a pretty good laugh to be around nowadays. You should visit them more often. They’ve missed you.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Wilkins was still in total shock, seeing a room full of _his_ family and yet not a single one of them was void of a smile, “they’ve never gotten along in the past.”  
  
“Well, people can change. That’s why we’re here, remember?” He looked thoughtfully to Bert, but in the living room, they were interrupted by Dawes Jr.  
  
“Come on now, I think its time for a game!”  
  
“Oh, I love games!” Jack bounded into the living room, followed closely by Bert and Wilkins, who watched as the leerie hopped onto the couch, sitting bedside Wilkins’ one hundred-and three-year old great aunt. And Wilkins was rather glad they were invisible, because he imagined that Jack’s sudden energetic appearance might have given her a heart attack if he hadn’t taken her head off with the lighting pole he still held and flailed about, that, and the fact that by sitting cross-legged with his shoes on, he’d be making a right mess of the couch had he been corporeal.  
  
“Let’s play Yes & No.” The room was in agreement.  
  
“Alright,” Dawes began, “I’ll go first.” The family began a round of questioning, to which, Dawes could only answer yes or no. And it was soon discovered that he was thinking of an animal, live and savage, that growled and grunted, yet sometimes spoke with dignity. It lived in London and walked the streets, but nobody made a show of it. It wasn’t led, had no menagerie, and was never killed in the market. There were many suggestions, but alas, it was not a horse, or a donkey, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. It was only when Wilkins’ cousin Suzanne asked if the creature was liked by others and got a no, that’s they really started narrowing things down. For this creature was considered vile and was avoided by many. But it wasn’t a rat, or a cockroach, or a flea, or a snake (that one being a rather fanciful suggestion from Jack, considering London didn’t have any snakes, but of course, and quite thankfully, his suggestion wasn’t heard). With every idea, Dawes chuckled away to himself, wandering around the room as he simply couldn’t sit still through all this giddy excitement. Eventually, the great aunt whom Jack was sitting next too, and had been rather quiet throughout the game, suddenly started laughing, and bellowed, much to the surprise of everyone,  
  
“Oh, I know this!” The whole room erupted into ‘what?’s, the loudest being Jack, who was probably the most invested in the game of everyone present.  
  
“Go on.” Dawes urged.  
  
“It’s your nephew, Wilkins!” The whole room erupted into laughter, as Jack added,  
  
“Scrooge, more like!” But he quickly turned and saw Wilkins expression, and cringed under his gaze. “Oops, sorry.”  
  
Wilkins couldn’t believe it. Is this really what they thought of him? Did they really talk so foully of him behind his back, even though he spent so much energy to be a respectable gentleman? It was hardly fair! But as much as he would have liked to shout about it, Bert was already walking him out of the room. It didn’t matter if he got upset about it. It wasn’t like his family would be able to hear him.  
  
“I don’t believe it! Did you hear what they said about me?! They think I’m like a cockroach, or a rat!”  
  
“Or a snake.” Bert added, giving a look to Jack, who cringed under their gazes.  
  
“I didn’t know they were doing that! And, hey, its not so bad. Snakes are pretty cool.” However, from the look on Wilkins’ face, his assurance did little to help.  
  
“Come on now, mate, let’s have a look somewhere else, shall we?” Wilkins’ was glad when they didn’t retrieve the bicycle and simply transported them with whatever magic they had at their disposal to the other side of London, to a rather pretty little street, lined with bare trees in the late evening. But most notably, he had no idea where they were.  
  
“What is this place?” He asked. Jack was the first to answer, seeing as he was feeling rather keen to change topic after that game.  
  
“Why this is Cherry Tree Lane. And our next stop is number 17: home of the Banks family.”  
  
“Banks?” He mused, “As in, Michael Banks?”  
  
“The very one!”  
  
“Why are you showing me this?”  
  
“Well, it’s Christmas here too, you know!” Came Bert’s response.  
  
“Come on, Michael will be back soon!” Wilkins almost asked where he’d be back from, but quickly remembered the orders he’d given Michael over the incident with the books. God, he really was Scrooge now, wasn’t he?  
  
Upon being brought inside, Wilkins was met with the warmth of a Christmas meal being cooked. He couldn’t help but notice that the beautifully decorated house was rather quiet, which he thought was rather unusual, as Wilkins knew for a fact that Michael had at least three young children. Bert and Jack weren’t too surprised by any of this, and seemed happy to enjoy the quiet, but Wilkins found that his curiosity was overwhelming him. So, when he heard the quiet chattering coming from the kitchen, he simply had to see for himself who was responsible.  
  
He padded through the hallway and arrived at the door, which, although it was closed, he was happily able to walk right on through. Inside, were two women. One of them, he assumed to be a hired cook living with them, while the other, Wilkins recognised to be Michael’s sister. Ooh what was her name, now? Joan? Jasmine?  
  
“Jane.” Jack provided, startling Wilkins, who hadn’t even heard him come in, nevermind known that he could tell what he was thinking. But anyway, he was grateful for the help.  
  
“Thank you.” Jack tipped his cap to him. From there, Wilkins happily listened to the two women chatting away to each other about the time of year and how much fun it was. It was only when Ellen mentioned Wilkins, that things became less sweet.  
  
“It’s times like this that I can’t stand people like him. Do you know what that Wilkins tried to do?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“He found out about those joke books and threw a wobbly over it. He tried to tell Michael to work on Christmas day, because apparently, he was planning on working, too!”  
  
“No!” Jane gasped incredulously.  
  
“Oh yes. But he didn’t get mad about anyone else who worked on the book, because they’re all higher up the ladder to him. And that foul man only likes to kick down. Michael didn’t go, obviously. He was booked off for Christmas and if anyone tried to say otherwise, they’d have to answer to Dawes.”  
  
“That’s awful.” Jane muttered, “and it really makes you think how much of a sad life Wilkins has if he was already planning on working on Christmas Day, of all days. Does he not have any friends? Family? Anyone at all that at least likes him even just a little bit?”  
  
“I highly doubt that. That man may be rich, but he’s just about as popular as a venomous little snake!” Wilkins noticed Jack nudging Bert at that, seeing that someone else used his rather ‘stupid’ comparison, too. “I’d be surprised if you could find even one person willing to say something nice about him. Not even his own mother. I’m telling you now, when he kicks the bucket, they’ll be no point in a funeral, nobody will come. They might aswell toss him to the birds. They’d appreciate him more than any person could.” Wilkins cringed at her blunt words, but there wasn’t much that he could do about it at that moment. Ellen was a blunt woman. And once you got her going, it was going to be quite hard to get her to stop. Which is why Wilkins was so glad that the front door suddenly burst open with the voices of several excitable children.  
  
“Sounds like they’re back.” Jane rushed out of the kitchen, Wilkins hot on her heels. And upon reaching the door, they saw Michael standing there with all three of his children. Of course, their reunion was sweet, as it would be with any family, and the children launched into the long-convoluted tail of how their father took them sledging and then they went to see the church choir singing, and how their day had been oh so wonderful. Normally, such sickly-sweet discourse would give him the urge to vomit, and yet, after the day he’d had, he quite enjoyed listening to their tale. Anything to stop them from talking about how much they hated him.  
  
“Well, that sounds wonderful! I should’ve come round earlier to join you all,” Jane beamed, hugging each one of the kids. Though as Wilkins was quick to notice, the little blonde boy started coughing as soon as he was hugged.  
  
“Oh, Georgie, are you alright? Come on, sit down, I’ll get you some water.” Michael settled the youngest on the couch, before dashing to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water.  
  
“Good heavens!” Wilkins exclaimed, “What’s wrong with him? He looks so pale.” Bert sighed, shaking his head at him.  
  
“He got sick a while ago, and has just been getting worse. Course, the stress doesn’t help.”  
  
“Stress? What does a boy his age have to be stressed about?”  
  
“Lots of stuff,” Jack started, “They had to give evidence at your trial, remember. That was a lot of meetings and interviews and such. And of course, the stress of almost losing the house won’t have helped, in the first place. Then there’s all the times you’ve made Michael work late or on his days off, and take the one parent these kids have away from them.”  
  
“I’ve never done anything of the sort!” He lied.  
  
“You literally told him to work on Christmas day. They were _just_ talking about it.”  
  
“Yeah, keep up!” Bert exclaimed, “We may just be labourers, but we’re not thick.” Wilkins watched the family as Michael came back with Georgie’s water, struggling to get him to drink it without choking through his coughing fit. It wasn’t right. He was just a child. Children shouldn’t be stressed about adults’ problems. They should be playing outside with their friends, without a care in the world. They should be going to school and exploring the land they’d inherit. It wasn’t fair.  
  
“Tell me, will this boy be alright?” Wilkins wasn’t sure why he felt so emotionally moved for a child he barely knew, but he found himself almost begging. He just needed to know that something good was going to come out of this whole rotten mess. And if it was just that this child would recover, then he could live with that. But by their grave expressions, he wasn’t so sure he’d be so lucky.  
  
“Winter’s a tough time to get sick.” Was all Jack could say, clearly just as shaken by the prospect of losing Georgie.  
  
“When I look to the future, I’ll be honest, Wilkins,” Bert started, “I see another empty place at that dining table. They’ve lost their mother, already, and if things don’t change soon, well…” Bert didn’t even want to finish the thought, and as the pair began to leave the house, Wilkins was hot on their trail asking another question, as he chased them out into the night air,  
  
“If things don’t change? So that means there’s a chance to put his right? Please tell me that’s what you mean!”  
  
But upon them turning around, he was met with a fright. The two men had suddenly changed. They’d aged. The youngest now looked more like the sweep had done, streaks of silver slicing through his otherwise dark hair. While the sweep with the face of his uncles, now looked even more like them. His grey hair had turned to a pure snowy white, and his whole body hunched over into a c-shape, leaving him trembling and leaning heavily on his chimney sweep brush. Jack linked arms with him to support the man, as their gazes landed on Wilkins.  
  
“You grow old?”  
  
“Afraid so,” Jack chirped.  
  
“Are spirits’ lives so short?”  
  
“Our time in this world is very brief. Time passes, and what was the present becomes the past. The future becomes the present and before you know it, a whole lifetime has passed!” Jack seemed much too cheerful despite his rapid aging, while Bert appeared to be so ancient, he now struggled to speak.  
  
But before he said a word, they were interrupted by what Wilkins first thought might be two cats having a fight behind the bins. Jack reached out and knocked his lighting pole against them, and from inside the containers, emerged two haggard children, dressed in nothing but rags, starved and fighting over a piece of rotten fish that looked to have been thrown out days ago. The spirits seemed to recognise their shrivelled faces, and their dark eyes that lay sunken in their sockets. Angels themselves would have turned their noses up at such a repugnant sight.  
  
“Who are they?” Wilkins cried. “Are they yours?”  
  
“They are yours.” Said Bert. “This boy is Ignorance, and the girl is Want. Beware them both. But most of all, beware the boy. For on his brow, I see what has been written: Doom. It must be erased.”  
  
“Well, is there no way to help them?”  
  
“Are there no prisons?!” Bert started.  
  
“No workhouses?!” Jack continued. The two looked to him, laughing together, as the reality Dawned upon Wilkins.  
  
“Or shouldn’t they just die and decrease the surplus population?!”  
  
Big Ben struck three.  
  
He hadn’t even been able to go home between spirits. And the time had passed so quickly. He could’ve sworn the evening had only just settled, yet his watch never lied, and the spirits were gone. He looked around him, realising that he was no longer standing outside the Banks’ house, but rather, in a dingy alleyway down the back of an equally dingy street.  
  
And right when he thought he’d be left on his own, the final spirit appeared, draped, and hooded. This new being was much taller than himself. Maybe eight or nine feet; nothing short of a giant. The solemn figure approached, and as much as he would have liked, Wilkins was unable to see their face beneath the heavy black cloak they wore.  
  
“You must be the third spirit. The spirit of things yet to come, I assume?” He stated, but upon remembering what the previous spirits had said, added, “Do you have a name?” The spirit was silent. Of course, everyone has a name and the one time he does ask, he gets nothing.  
  
“I am willing to learn whatever I can from you.” He wasn’t quite so sure why he felt the need to appease this spirit. He felt more confident than when all this madness started, and yet, he so desperately wanted to appease them. “Please, lead on.” The spirit reached out an old bony hand to him, resting it on his shoulder. It was the only bare skin he could see of the spirit, and he was rather glad of it too. For the hand was grey and shrivelled, like those wretched children had been, and had he seen the rest of their face, he feared his heart may have stopped.  
  
As they began to walk, Wilkins was rather glad of this spirit’s more conventional use of transport rather than what the previous ones had done, but it only made sense, as they only needed to walk around the corner of the alley to see the first event out in the street.  
  
A group of bankers were gathered, presumably after leaving work for the day, and were all talking rather jovially despite the morbid topic.  
  
“I don’t know much about it, either way. I only know he’s dead.”  
  
"When did he die?" inquired another.  
  
"Last night, I believe."  
  
"Why, what was the matter with him?" asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. "I thought he'd never die."  
  
"God knows," said the first, with a yawn.  
  
"What has he done with his money?" asked a red-faced gentleman.  
  
"I haven't heard," said the first man, yawning again. "Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to me. That's all I know."  
  
This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.  
  
"It's likely to be a very cheap funeral," said the same speaker; "for upon my life I don't know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?"  
  
"I don't mind going if a lunch is provided. But I must be fed if I make one."  
  
Another laugh.  
  
"Well, I am the most disinterested among you, after all," said the first speaker, "for I never wear black gloves, and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go if anybody else will. When I come to think of it, I'm not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; we used to stop and speak whenever we met. I suppose that says a lot about how many friends he _did_ have, doesn’t it? Well, anyway, I must be off now. Goodnight." The speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Wilkins knew the men, and looked towards the Spirit for an explanation. But the Phantom glided on into a street as the scene once again changed. Its finger pointed to two people meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here.  
  
He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men of business: very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made a point always of standing well in their esteem: in a business point of view, that is; strictly in a business point of view.  
  
"How are you?" said one.  
  
"How are you?" returned the other.  
  
"Well!" said the first. "Old Scratch has got his own at last, hey."  
  
"So I am told," returned the second. "Cold, isn't it?”  
  
"Seasonable for Christmas time. You're not a skater, I suppose?"  
  
"No. No. Of course not. But I must be off. Good morning."  
  
Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting. Wilkins was rather surprised to be shown these conversations, as he couldn’t understand how it related to his own problems. Sure, Ellen had commented that nobody would care if he died, but even so, surely it would make more sense to see something or someone he was better acquainted with. Someone who actually played a part in his troubles.  
  
They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before, although he recognised its situation, and its bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offenses of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery.  
  
The phantom quickly ushered him through to a small back alley, to a kind of meeting which he had never seen before. Two women and a man, all equally shabby and filthy arrived with bags to meet with a slightly better dressed man- though no less filthy- smoking a pipe. He recognised the face of that man, his local leerie if he wasn’t mistaken. Angus, yes that was his name. He’d never seen the young man like this before. It appeared to be a few years into the future, based on how much the man had aged, and he couldn’t help but wonder, if perhaps his own greed had led this poor fellow to this life.  
  
“I thought he’d never kick it. Its about time. I’ve had my eye on his place for years. Used to pass it twice a day when I was a leerie. Always wondered what there’d be. I’d have broken in if the area hadn’t been so built up. But then again, I’m sure plenty of people would have been happy to see him kicked down a peg.” If only a few years had passed, Wilkins was quick to decide that they couldn’t possibly be talking about him. He still had enough youth to keep going for another thirty-or-so years. He wondered if this was perhaps some other unlucky soul’s fate that was to be similar to his if he didn’t change. But when he looked to the spirit, they didn’t acknowledge him, and instead, continued to watch the scene play out before them.  
  
"Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did." One of the women commented, much to the amusement of Angus.  
  
“I don’t think there could be truer words than that. So, what did you get?” There was a moment of silence between the four. “Come on, we’re not going to go dobbing each other in, are we?” The other man laughed,  
  
“Course not.”  
  
“Right then, come on, let’s have a look. It’s not like he’s going to miss anything. Unless dead people have feelings, now!” One of the women laughed,  
  
“Well, if he didn’t want anyone to nick them after he died, he should’ve had a few friends who would care enough to look after all his junk.” The lady opened her bundle to Angus, though there wasn’t too much inside. As she had said herself, it was junk: just a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve buttons, and a broach of no great value. It seemed she must have gotten there a little late and missed out on the best stuff. Angus produced a piece of chalk from his pocket and made a note on the wall of the value of each item, and added together a total for the woman.  
  
“And not a penny more.” The man came next. He had sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old fashioned silver spoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a few boots. His account was calculated in the same manner.  
  
The final woman offered her bundle to Angus, who unfastened it to reveal a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.  
  
“Are these… curtains?”  
  
“bed-curtains, to be precise.” Angus looked to her with wide eyes.  
  
“You mean you took them down, rings and all, while he was lying there?”  
  
“Yep,” she replied, “And why not? What’s he going to do with them?” Angus grinned,  
  
“I like your style, Miss.” The woman smiled, but as Angus went through the rest of the bundle, she warned,  
  
“Don’t get the blankets dirty, now.”  
  
“You got his blankets?”  
  
“’Course I did! He’s hardly going to catch a cold now, is he?”  
  
“They’re still warm!” He exclaimed.  
  
“Course they are. Only the highest quality for you Angus!” She beamed with a flirty grin.  
  
“How nice of you, but flattery gets you nowhere. I’m not giving you extra for that. But still, this is nothing to sniff at.” And as he chalked up her total, the group continued to chuckle away to themselves. It was enough to make him feel sick. Whoever this wretched man was, he wanted to be nothing like him.  
  
“Spirit, please,” Wilkins begged, “I understand what you’re trying to tell me. If I don’t change my ways, I will face the same fate as this man. There will be nobody by my side when I die, and nobody with fond memories of my company. But please, there must be something happy in this city. Can’t you show me some goodness? What about the Banks family? Can you take me there?”  
  
The phantom turned to him, and for a second, he rather thought he’d be ignored. But it seemed that the spirit had seen enough aswell, for there was no reluctance in how he raised his arm, pointing as the world seemed to change, and Wilkins once more, recognised his surroundings. The house seemed darker than it had done so before. As if the very joy woven into its soul had been sucked out. However, Wilkins was too overjoyed to be in a happier place, that he didn’t realise that the place should have been happier, still.  
  
“Cherry Tree Lane! Thank you, spirit. This is definitely a happier place. Thank you!” Wilkins didn’t hesitate as he hopped up the stairs and walked through the door. But while he expected to see the house full of life, he was unfortunately mistaken.  
  
The house was silent. Strangely silent. Though this time, he didn’t hear any chatter from the kitchen, only a few sniffles, And when he poked his head through the door, he was merely met with the sight of Ellen standing at the sink, washing dishes, and doing the best to muffle her sobs. He was rather startled by this, and his heart sank as soon as he remembered what Jack and Bert had said.  
  
He dived back into the hall and bounded to the living room. He had to be here. Don’t say their fears came true! Jane sat on the couch, cuddled close to the eldest two children. But just as he feared, Georgie was gone. He couldn’t stop his heart from pounding. This couldn’t be true. The boy couldn’t really be dead, could he?  
  
His question was answered when Michael came through the door. Alone. Totally alone. Wilkins had to check outside to make sure, for his mind simply couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  
  
“Where’s Georgie?” He asked frantically. He wasn’t expecting an answer from the phantom, for he knew he’d get none. He found himself begging for the Banks to see him, to hear him, and for them to tell him that everything was alright, and that this was all just some big, horrible misunderstanding. But of course, the spirits didn’t lie. And Georgie was gone.  
  
“What’s it like?” Jane asked Michael as soon as he entered the lounge.  
  
“Its great.” He tried to force a smile, but it wasn’t coming easily, “I picked out a spot on the hill. You can see the ducks from there.” Michael’s eyes were drawn to the mantlepiece, followed by everyone else, Wilkins included, to where a photo of Georgie sat beside a second picture of his mother.  
  
“At least he’s not alone up there.” Jane sighed, “Kate will look after him.”  
  
“I’m sure.” Michael crossed the room to join his sister and children on the couch, the four of them huddling together as if they were half frozen. And had he not been observant enough to watch his face before he curled up against Jane, he wouldn’t have realised until much later that he had started to sob, Jane’s arm wound tightly around him the whole time.  
  
Hadn’t they suffered enough?  
  
“Spirit, what you are showing me, is it things that could be or things that will be? Because if it’s only things that could be, then I assure you, I am already a changed man. I am more than ready to go into the world and do whatever it takes to right the wrongs in my life. Please, spirit, surely you can tell I’m serious. I can’t let any of this happen. Not to this family, or the leerie, or that man who was hated so much.” At his own words, he stopped. He still didn’t know who that man was.  
  
“Spirit, who was the man that London despises?” Again, his questions were answered. Before he knew what was happening, they were standing in a snowy graveyard and the phantom was pointing to one of the headstones. It lay in the darkest corner of the yard, far away from the rest, as whoever had been bothered to even bury the man knew there would be few visitors to come. He wouldn’t waste the more accessible land on such a man, leaving him totally alone, even in death.  
  
Wilkins approached the snow-covered stone, a sense of dread beginning to choke him. The death of this man was his fault. London despised him and again, it was going to be all his fault. Too many lives had been ruined and were going to be further sundered, all because of him! And he couldn’t possibly live with that on his conscience. He knelt at the rock, turning back to the phantom.  
  
“These are just things that could be?” But no answer came. He turned back to the stone, and with a shaking hand, brushed away the snow settled over it, to reveal:  
  
_William Weatherall Wilkins_  
  
“No. No. NO! This cant be! Spirit, please tell me this isn’t real! This can change can’t it? There has to be something I can do to put this right. I can’t be this wretched man. I can’t!” Stumbling to the phantom, he clutched his robe, taking his hand in his own.  
  
“I promise you; I am a changed man! I will honour Christmas in my heart. I’ll live in the past, present, and future. I will not shut out the lessons you have taught me. Just please tell me I can scratch away the name on that stone!”  
  
The phantom was still silent. He only wished for it to say something, anything in this moment to provide even the smallest sliver of comfort. To tell him that his fate wasn’t set in stone like his grave made him believe. That everything could change. But of course, the phantom was silent.  
  
But they did shake his hand.  
  
And with that, the spirit, still clutching him, seemed to shrink down. Its hooded cloak changed colours and texture until it resembled wood, when it began to morph into a different shape. That of a bedpost. And suddenly, he was home.  
  
Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own, to make amends in!  
  
“Thank the heavens! Thank you spirits! Thank you, Uncle Dawes! Yes, I will live in the past, present, and the future!” He laughed like a giddy schoolboy to himself, unable to stop his joyful pacing around the room, desperate to start doing something but so overwhelmed with relief that he had no clue where to start.  
  
"I don't know what to do!" cried Wilkins, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect fool of himself. "I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world!” He quickly gathered himself, to look somewhat presentable, and ran to the window, finding he was just in time to see a young leerie passing by at that moment. Angus. He wasn’t a crook! And Wilkins knew exactly what he wanted to do.  
  
“You, there!” The young man in question looked to his window, nearly startled off his bike by the sudden shout from what was normally a very quiet house.  
  
“Yes sir?”  
  
“What day is it?” Angus looked at him like he’d sprouted an extra head.  
  
“Why, its Christmas!” He thanked the Lord above. Those spirits did it all in one night, and yet he had more energy than he knew what to do with. What brilliance!  
  
“Do you know the poulterer’s on the corner of the street over?”  
  
“Yeah, ‘course. I pass it every day.”  
  
“Remarkable! Do you know if they’ve sold the prize turkey yet? Not the little one, the big one.”  
  
“The one that’s almost as big as me? No, they can’t seem to shift it. Too pricey, even for these parts.”  
  
“Brilliant! Do me a favour, go buy it, and bring it here.” He tossed down a pouch containing the exact amount. He’d passed it several days ago and had tutted at the price, finding it so shocking at the time that the number had seared itself in his brain. In reality, it was very reasonable considering its size. Angus used little hyperbole when he said it was nearly as big as him.  
  
The leerie looked up at him startled by the sudden change in Wilkins, finding it hard to believe that he would trust anyone else with his money. Especially someone he hardly knew.  
  
“You’re going to trust me with this? You sure I’m not just going to run off with it and pocket the cash?” Wilkins laughed, a startlingly genuine laugh.  
  
“I have every faith in you. And when you come back, I’ll give you twice as much for yourself.” The leerie gasped, mounted his bike, and took off like a shot to the poulterer’s, chuckling to himself that Beth was going to love him when he got back.  
  
Perfect. Now what? Clothes! Yes, clothes. He needed to get dressed. Following Angus’ example, he raced to his wardrobe, flinging the doors open and grabbing the first things he saw, taking a moment to appreciate the fact that they hadn’t been raided in the night, like those visions had first suggested.  
  
“This is great. And I can send it to Michael Banks. Maybe even play a little practical joke on him while I’m at it. He’s brave enough to put his family first, afterall. He dashed out to the landing, taking note at how the fireplace and lamp that he lit had burnt themselves out, rather than the whole house whilst unattended, and he once more thanked the spirits, before arriving to the door just as Angus returned with the turkey.  
  
“Goodness, how very prompt.” He chuckled, passing him the promised payment, “There we go, twice as much and a little extra since its Christmas.” Angus could hardly contain his excitement. He could feed himself for a week with that, and still have some money left over! “Now, you’ve been such a help, all I need is for you to come with me to help me deliver it. Is that alright?”  
  
“Certainly, sir!”  
  
“Good lad.”  
  
And so, the two set off together in high spirits, talking like good friends the whole way. On any other day, Wilkins may have doubted his ability to hold a worthwhile conversation with a stranger, and yet suddenly, he was too giddy to care, and happily spoke to the young man accompanying him. They stopped off at the sweetshop on the way, and everyone they passed noticed Wilkins’ change. When he greeted the passers-by, they were pleasantly surprised to say the least, and when he stopped by the SPRUCE charity collectors, they almost fainted at the size of the donation he offered. They’d never known him to give to charity at all, nevermind to part with so much all at once. And they were even more startled by his offer to give a monthly donation of a similar size. Wilkins and Angus continued on their way. He took a detour to the shops to buy some gifts and together with Angus, dropped them off at his Uncle Dawes’ house, with the promise that he would drop by again later in the day to see the family, leaving the dear old man completely and utterly gobsmacked. Yes, it was safe to say that Wilkins was a changed man, but there was still one man who was none the wiser:  
  
Michael Banks.  
  
Upon arriving to Cherry Tree Lane and informing Angus of his plan, the leerie thought it was an equally great idea to have a bit of fun with him, spurred on even more by the fact that Angus also knew Mr Banks through a mutual friend. So, Angus hid away, out of sight, while Wilkins did his best to stop laughing and force a scowl, which was pretty difficult considering the circumstances. But eventually, after taking some deep breaths to calm himself, he knocked on the door.  
  
Thankfully, Michael was the one to answer and his face was absolutely priceless.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Banks. I told you to be at work at nine o’clock, on the dot. Now, what time is it?” Michael cowered slightly, and he almost felt bad. But he couldn’t crack a smile, not yet.  
  
“Half-nine, sir.”  
  
“Then I suggest you get your hat and coat and come with me.”  
  
“But, sir,” he stammered, “it’s Christmas! I won’t leave my family on Christmas.”  
  
“Christmas? HUMBUG!” He bellowed. Michael looked at him incredulously. This had all started with him being compared to Scrooge. What was he doing? Michael could hardly believe it when a warm and friendly smile settled on Wilkins’ face, as he took out a small paper bag, holding it out to him.  
  
“Humbug, Michael?”  
  
Michael looked in the bag, and, sure enough, it was filled with humbugs. The actual sweets. He looked up at him in disbelief,  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“No need to be so formal, Michael. You see, I had a bit of an epiphany last night. I’ve not been treating you as well as I should. You’re a good man, a hard worker, and you prioritise what really matters: family. So, Michael, to make amends, I would like to offer you something for your wonderful family.” At that, Wilkins called Angus over, who had been watching the whole thing and was cackling like a mad man.  
  
“Are you serious?” Michael couldn’t help but laugh along with them as he was flooded with relief. He happily hugged both Wilkins and Angus, and when Jane and Ellen came over to see what all the fuss was, they ended up both carrying the enormous turkey back to the kitchen, all three- yes _three_ \- of the children watching the spectacle in total awe. Because of course, Georgie did not die, and it seemed that seeing Wilkins being nice for the first time… ever, did him the world of good.  
  
“Thank you!” Michael beamed, “You should join us for dinner.”  
  
“That’s so kind of you, you know, I think I will. I’d like that very much.”  
  
“Then I must be off gents,” Angus said, tipping his cap to the two, “Merry Christmas to you all.” They watched him run away to a leerie, who Wilkins just noticed, had been lingering after lighting the lamps on the street. He’d packed away his ladder, but decided to wait for Angus upon seeing him drop by. And when Angus excitedly showed him the money he’d been given, the leerie looked to the house, locking eyes with Wilkins, who’s heart almost stopped.  
  
Jack.  
  
So, he wasn’t just a spirit.  
  
Jack wore a proud and knowing smirk as he regarded the changed banker, before tipping his cap to him, giving a wink, and running off with his friend to whatever festivities they had planned. That left Wilkins standing on the porch with Michael, who smiled at him- a real, warm, genuine smile- and stepped aside for him to come in.  
  
The day was just as merry as he had hoped, and the house as warm as he remembered from his time with the spirits. Just as beautifully decorated, too. Yes, he quite liked having company. And knowing that just a friendly smile and a good word was all it took to get him there, he promised himself and the spirits that he would forever remember what he’d been taught.  
  
And Wilkins was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Georgie Banks, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some laughed upon seeing his sudden alteration, but he didn’t shout or scorn them, he simply let them be. He was still just as smart a man as he had always been, and knew that nothing good came to the world without at least one person getting a laugh out of it. Let them laugh, it was better than their troubles coming in less attractive forms. And his own heart laughed with them, which was enough for him.  
  
He had no future interactions with the spirits. Well, not as actual spirits. It turned out those forms they took were that of real people. People he knew. Mary and Jack had been at the there when the Banks family found their shares certificate to save the house, and he remembered Bert from the days when he used to clean his chimneys. Though he had probably seen him out and about since then, as the man had been much younger than the spirit when he worked for him. And throughout the years, he would go on to have several encounters with all three of them. Though they never let on that they knew what had happened, it seemed the look from Jack was the closest thing he got to confirmation that it was ever really them in the first place. And while he never quite figured out who the phantom was, he settled on the idea that maybe it was a form of himself, from whatever other universe he had been allowed to continue in his wicked ways, coming to him to warn him of what was to come. And while he certainly had no proof, the whole incident had been so fantastical, that he couldn’t find it in him to have the need to search for an explanation.  
  
And even without the spirits to check up on him, he lived the rest of his days following the lessons he learnt from them; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Georgie Banks observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

**Author's Note:**

> I totally didn’t just write all that to do that humbug bit at the end nooooooo, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And since this took so long to write, they’ll be no upload on Saturday, I’m having a Christmas break ;) But I’ll be back to my usual schedule posting on Saturdays in the new year. I hope you all have a very merry Christmas, and a happy new year!


End file.
